LIGHT and shadows tell the remarkable tale of Sisa, through the direction of Gerardo de Leon and the cinematography of Arsenio Doña. De Leon, who was noted for his gothic temperament, found in one of the characters of Jose Rizal’s novel the object of his chiaroscuro-Sisa, a sweet, and caring mother who became mad because her two sons, Crispin and Basilio, were accused of a crime they never committed. We all know the story but looking at the screen and being on the receiving end of Anita Linda’s gaze remains one of the most unforgettable cinematic gifts we can accept.
But that’s not the point of this essay. My interest in revisiting De Leon is built around the curiosity as to how he creates imagery on screen. One of the most difficult elements in this filmmaker’s work is how he fills the frame with individuals-actors-who naturally step out of that crowd to deliver a line. In Sisa (1951), for example, the madwoman is invited to partake of the feast, whereupon she begins to gather the food from the table while everyone looks at her. But as she moves further to the left, the officer of the Guardia Civil surprises her. Sisa runs, flailing away all the food she has collected. She runs uphill, stands shadowed by a cluster of bamboo framing her dark figure. She briskly turns around, a phantom that may not be seen anymore.
When does Sisa create an appearance first? Feral, her face appears shot from one side. There’s no need to talk: that skewed angle and the eye twisted are enough to paint madness.
Child actors have always been considered as mere decorations in films. And yet the two actors who play Crispin and Basilio embody our fear of authority and patriarchy. Their moments are in the ‘campanario’ or belfry. The two brothers are serious about their tasks of ringing the huge bells, tolling and giving those who hear the sound both refuge and time for prayer. The town doesn’t know that up there with the bells can be found the tragedy for two young boys and the eternal insanity of their mother. Here, De Leon converts the holy space into a cruel site by creating huge swaths of shadow. Interestingly, there’s a scene where we find Sisa attending to her violent husband. He arrives with his hat wet from the rains. In the course of their conversation, lightning cuts across the sky, Sisa turns around. We see the distant belfry and we also catch the gaze of Sisa-her maternal instinct alive, ready to protect.
In Sawa sa Lumang Simboryo, Gerardo de Leon is magnificent. Set in the Spanish Occupation, the story is about ‘tulisanes’ but only from the definition of the colonialists.
I have always marveled at Kurosawa Akira and Ozu Yazujiro but in Sawa…, I see the style of the two Japanese masters. The entrance of Jose Padilla Jr. is a manfully amazing shot taken from below, the skies behind dark. This is followed by men on horses, up on the hill, and later rushing down almost in one long take. All throughout, you realize the camera is at a low angle. The characters do not simply walk but they cross through twigs and branches, over humps, and then more shadows.
The marked grave of the tulisan’s wife is always viewed from below. In the scene where the character of Anita Linda brings a wreath of flowers to the said grave, the low angle goes double because when she stares up, the tulisan is there on a promontory.
If Gerardo De Leon always seems to prefer the greater canvas of storytelling, Lamberto Avella favors the collapsed picture of social realism. In (1956) Anak Dalita (its title in English being The Ruins, with reference to Intramuros as its setting), Avellana situates post-war poverty in that small street where people go about daily. The embellishment, if you can call it that, happens subtly or even accidentally. This morning, the laundrywoman (or is she a vendor?) walks with the gait of a nonactor, unmindful of who else is there with her onscreen. That moment, in fact, cinema has vanished until we see this woman in stiletto, her dress hugging her tight. This is Rosa Rosal, beautiful in a sinful way as she was given roles similar to this manifesting before us. In this short introduction, Rosa Rosal hogs the screen without trying. But Lamberto Avella has a trick somewhere-further down that poor street is an itinerant barber servicing a customer right on the street.
The post-war scenario here has to be clarified: while Intramuros is a result of the devastation brought about by World War II, our protagonist comes home from Korea, the latest war that has conscripted Filipino soldiers once more. Our soldier is coming home to a dying mother.
When he finally arrives in their home, the character of Tony Santos (Vic) gets to embrace his mother who soon dies. Beside him is Tita (as played by Rosa Rosal). Here is where we see the power of restraint and reality in Avellana’s direction. Upon seeing that his mother has passed on, Vic crumbles in front of the old woman, no weeping or screaming; Tita merely turns around, she being not the major mourner.
The scenes that follow show Tita comforting Vic, and the latter remaining stubborn in his grief. Tita, all this time, stays patient as if waiting for the coldness in Vic to thaw. That day comes when Vic absentmindedly pays Tita a visit. He arrives when Tita is primping herself up. Tita, pleasantly surprised, turns around and crosses her legs sensuously. The next line from Tita’s full lips can slash any poverty line: ‘Maybe, I can talk to you now like the men around here because now you know how to stare.’